There is a now famous old Cherokee adage, which I am sure you know, that says “Don’t judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes.” I recently was thinking of adding a follow-up proverb. No, it wasn’t, “before you walk in another man’s shoes, use foot powder.” But I was thinking of how in reality, we cannot really walk in someone else’s shoes unless they are willing to hand them over. So my add-on saying would go something like, “You can’t walk in someone else’s shoes unless he’s willing to take them off for you.” So empathy has a bit less to do with imagination and is possibly more about identification.
Since most people keep their shoes near their front door or maybe in their bedroom closet, you have to get down from your observation perch and actually go near to where that someone lives to get that chance at trying on their size. That’s why I love missions. Because it forces us, hopefully, to lay aside our preconceived notions of what people are like. And because it’s really like walking in Jesus’ shoes, who left his all-seeing viewpoint to put on a pair of sandals and trek a few thousand miles over 31/2 years with his disciples. He couldn’t have tried on those sandals without first leaving heaven, coming to earth and paying a visit to a cobbler’s shop.
When we were living in Bangladesh, a man tried to walk in my shoes once. Actually he stole my brand new slip-on dress shoes from the back of the church. I had looked all over Bangkok Thailand for those, and was quite fond of them. Everyone leaves their shoes at the back in order to not track dirt and much worse on the clean floor or carpet. So while I was praying for people, he decided to find out what it would be like to trade shoes with me. When I went looking for my fancy, expensive shoes, the only unclaimed ones were a well-worn pair of flip-flops. I had no choice but to put them on, even though they were entirely too small for me. What I found is that my feet became a lot dirtier and hurt a lot more from my walk. And I also did not appreciate the look of disdain that the concierge gave me as I walked into the lobby of my hotel. Tie and dress pants combined with miniature rubber sandals, caked with mud. Talk about shabby-chic. I felt the twinge of shame experienced only by the have-nots of society who cannot afford what the wealthy and beautiful take for granted.
I learned something from this experience. I found out what it is like both physically and emotionally for an average Bangladeshi to walk a considerable distance. And this valuable lesson would have been missed by me if I had not been willing to leave America, go to Bangladesh and take off my shoes.
I have also taken off my shoes when invited over to French families’ homes and found that most French hosts have a pair of slippers to hand each of their guests. They are Europe’s biggest consumers of house slippers. And so my willingness to leave my own culture and enter theirs allowed me the privilege to talk, eat, laugh and cry in the homes of my French friends. By walking what was only a few meters in their house shoes, I learned what no tourist on vacation who walks and shops the streets of Paris can know. The French are wonderful people. Warm, hospitable, self-depreciating, and deeply caring. How sad that I run into many people in my travels who’ve never gone deeper in French culture than the Notre Dame and eating a baguette. So they have missed this reality about the French and yet seem pretty content and self-assured of their assessments.
I guess the biggest overall lesson here is to reserve judgment. All we know from the media and other people’s experiences is simply biased, second-hand information. Bengalis are so much more to me than Muslims trying to get into my country. The French are infinitely more to me than the caricature of beret wearing cheese and wine connoisseurs. I am thankful for the privilege to have worn flip-flops in Bangladesh and slippers in France. And I believe I am a better man for it.